


lord i was born a travelin' man

by townpariah



Category: Thor (Movies) RPF, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Hiddlesworth, M/M, Road Trips, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:53:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/pseuds/townpariah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tom goes on a road trip with chris and his brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> i wish i had a good excuse fort his but i really don't. finally something that is _not_ an au. many thanks to [sassguardian](http://sassguardian.tumblr.com/) for the beta. i dedicate this to the amazing and talented (amazingly talented) [curds-and-wheyface](http://curds-and-wheyface.tumblr.com/) [whose fic you should read right now](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1011955). ♥

  


 

  


 

 

 

 

  
He gets the call at midnight, six hours before he’s scheduled to fly back home for an audition. Tom almost doesn’t hear it above the white noise of the television, but his phone skitters several feet across the nightstand and he manages to scoop it up mid-ring.

It’s Chris, his voice tired and scratchy and sleep-deprived.

“Tom,” he says, with a long pause. Tom finds himself, inexplicably, holding his breath along with him. “Are you doing anything in the next two weeks?”

*

They head West, to California, because all the greatest road trips end in California, and because, Luke said, he knew somebody with oceanfront property in San Pedro. Tom packs extensively, everything he can shove into a duffel bag at the last minute: a change of clothes, tea and biscuits, some CDs, a disposable camera loaned to him by Josh that he keeps meaning to return. Feeling sentimental, he puts on his leather watch, a gift from his mother when he had turned eighteen, hoping it will bring him good luck. Then he buys a plane ticket to New York, where he and Chris had agreed to meet over the phone, his palms sweating as he scans the throng on the concourse.

Chris, flanked by his brothers, waves to him and grins.

Tom crams himself next to Chris in the backseat, self-conscious of the way he’s dressed in comparison to the three of them, in jeans and a button-down blue shirt. He has penny loafers on, like a complete arsehole. Who wears penny loafers to a road trip? Chris laughs at him and insists it’s fine, even though Tom knows that it’s far from fine. They can just pick up clothes for him on the way, he says, and wraps a heavy arm around Tom’s shoulders and squeezes him in pulses. Twice for reassurance, another before he relinquishes his grip.

“Come on,” he says, pointing him to the direction of the car after the requisite introductions have been made.

The drive is long and uneventful, punctuated by little arguments between Liam and Luke, and requests to “fucking change the music Chris.” It’s oddly entertaining, watching them bicker back and forth, launching peanut shells at each other until one of them bursts out laughing. The highway churns gently underneath them, the songs on the stereo shift from country to jazz then country again, Liam belting out, off-key, “Lord I was born a traveling man” until Chris flicks the back of his ear, rolling his eyes.

Luke is careful to obey the speed limit but drives confidently, his jaw set in concentration, his mouth thinned to a serious line.

The car is cavernous compared to anything Tom’s family has ever owned, a Nissan Armada in chrome blue, a rental, the seats a soft buttery leather, comfortable enough to sleep in. Tom slouches in his seat and listens to the rhythmic hum of the engine, the ever-present noise of movement, the crinkling of food wrappers, each sigh and sniff, acutely aware of the steady warmth of Chris’ knee pressed against his own.

 

 

 

  
  
  
The lights through the windows are the ones on the highway, bright like halos as they shine above them. He doesn’t mean to sleep, but he’s tired, and Chris is already snoring softly next to him and the song on stereo is a blissful croon filling up his mind with images of home. The last thing he hears before he drifts off is someone wishing him sweet dreams, and he must’ve been already dreaming because it’s his mother’s voice that he hears, bidding him good night, good night my little darling.  
  
  
*  
  
Tom uses a payphone to call her. It’s blistering hot outside, and the gravel shimmers under his feet. Tom has pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and unbuttoned it halfway down his chest but he still looks like an arsehole, standing outside a diner in the outskirts of the city, sunglasses tucked in his front pocket. He imagines this is what movie stars must look like, but he doesn’t think he’s earned the title just yet: making Thor doesn’t mean anything, only that he’d been lucky enough to be part of it.  
  
His mother picks up on the third ring just as Tom catches sight of Chris through the glass window paying for the food and sweet-talking the waitress. Luke has just paid for the petrol and is scanning the receipt in his hand, making a put-out face. Liam is tucked in one of the gummy-red booths, his head tipped back, a hat over his face.  
  
Tom wipes the mouthpiece with the hem of his shirt before answering. “Mum,” he says. “It’s me.”  
  
“I thought you said you were going on a trip?”  
  
“I am,” Tom tells her. “I’m with Chris right now and his brothers.”  
  
“Your new friends?”  
  
“Mum,” Tom says, embarrassed, unable to keep the whine from his voice.  
  
She laughs, the sound of it comforting even from miles away. “I’m on a payphone right now,” he tells her.  
  
“Why on earth? Don’t you have your phone with you?”  
  
Tom shrugs, then feels stupid because she can’t see him, and sighs. “I thought it only fitting,” he confesses. “It makes things feel very American.”  
  
“Well, as long as you’re having fun,” she says.  
  
Now it’s Tom’s turn to laugh. He watches Chris again through the glass: the strong curves of his shoulders, the arms bulging out of the sleeves of his shirt. He remembers meeting him for the first time at Ken’s house, his smile white and blinding and true, the firmness of his handshake, the easy cadence of his vowels. Inexplicably, he remembers the exact blue of Chris’ shirt.  
  
“I love you,” his mum says to him, knocking him out of his reverie. Tom echoes the sentiment before hanging up and joining Chris and the others for breakfast.  
  
*  
  
Luke buys them a map which Liam spends half an hour defacing with penises. “Seriously, dude, what is wrong with you,” Luke says, then slaps him upside the head, confiscating his sharpie. Liam just shrugs and goes back to texting his girlfriend, rolling out the window to let the afternoon breeze in.  
  
They spend the night at a motel. The curtains are bedraggled and the walls are paper thin, and the television still projects movies in black and white, propped above the foot of the bed. Tom rooms with Chris whose clothes are meticulously set aside: his shirt and trousers are folded on top of each other on the bed and his bag rests on the armchair next to the door. He showers first. Tom takes the bed next to the window where he has a good view of the gravel lot outside. He can hear the rush of cars outside, trucks joining the interstate, the ebb and flow of life on the road. There’s nothing in the room he feels safe touching so he remains standing by the window until Chris finishes in the shower, walking out with his hair in wet clumps over his face.  
  
Tom is surprised to find him already dressed in jean shorts and a t-shirt. His wet hair drips lines across his shoulders and Chris crosses the room in three easy strides to hand him the spare bath towel, compliments of the E-Z Motel. Then Chris points to the clothes on the bed. “In case you don’t have anything appropriate packed,” he says.  
  
Tom opens his mouth. He wants to fling his arms around Chris and squeeze him but instead he laughs and scrubs self-consciously at the back of his neck where heat blooms like a pulse steadily creeping up his hairline. “Thanks,” he says. The bathroom sink is hardened with stalagmites of toothpaste and hardened chips of soap but the hot water is strong and makes him feel far less cranky and tired. He takes Chris’ shirt, which, before his shower, he left hanging on a hook behind the bathroom door, and presses the worn material to his face. It smells like nothing, clean, no traces of Chris’ sometimes musty smell, and he pulls it over his head and studies his reflection in the mirror, the collar stretched out and worn, dipping down his chest. His hair needs a seeing-to: the dark tufts curl over his forehead like commas, peaking in static puffs at the back where he’d run a towel through it.  
  
When he steps out of the shower, Chris is already asleep, one arm flung across his face, his mouth wide open. Tom lets his hair drip down his shoulders and arranges the pillows on his bed. He folds his hands across his chest and glances back at Chris – his body relaxed, slack in repose – before turning off the lamp. Then he sleeps.  
  
*  
  
The night before the trip, Tom stands in front of his bathroom mirror, without a clear idea of what to pack.  
  
Tom likes order, structure; he likes making plans though sometimes never follows through with them. The idea of going on a road trip with Chris and his brothers – guys he’s only heard about in stories, mythical staples in Chris’ childhood – is somehow daunting but electrifying, a spur of the moment decision that can end in either disappointment or embarrassment. Knowing Tom, both, but he’s already said yes.  
  
Chris, still on the phone with him, and ever helpful, tells him to pack underwear.  
  
“Thanks, I’d almost forgotten,” Tom tells him, dryly. Chris’ laugh is throaty, jovial, making Tom shiver and curl his toes into the maroon carpeting under his feet. Tom scratches under his eye. In the powdery light of the bathroom, his skin looks sallow, sickly. There are bags under his eyes. He looks as crazy as he feels, standing there in a white undershirt in his striped red and green underwear, talking to Chris who is halfway across the continent.  
  
“I hope your brothers like me,” Tom says, dragging himself out of the bathroom and pitching himself into the bed, amongst the clutter of clothes and CDs. He sprawls like a starfish, feet hanging. He flexes his toes, breathes.  
  
“They will,” Chris assures him. “Everyone likes you.”  
  
“That’s not even remotely true.”  
  
Chris laughs again. Tom imagines him lying in his own bed , his face sleepy and dented with pillow marks even though it must be morning already where he is.  
  
“It is,” Chris insists.  
  
“You don’t know that,” Tom tells him.  
  
“I do,” Chris says. “You’re extremely likeable. Trust me.”  
  
Tom smiles in the dark.  
  
*  
  
They grab breakfast in the adjoining diner the next morning. The coffee is watered down and the waffles are bland but Tom finds himself in a surprisingly amiable mood. The sun outside is already strong, casting shadows on the ground. At the table, Luke pores over the map, a new one free of Liam’s scribbles, marking all their stops with a felt-tip pen. They’re taking the scenic route to California, a trip that will, according to his estimation, take ten days at most to complete. Luke glances at Chris above his map and sighs, handing him the car keys with a frown, the key ring a hand-carved tiki the size of Tom’s thumb, swaying between them. “Your turn to drive today,” he tells Chris.  
  
Chris snatches the key from his grasp with a face-splitting grin. “Awesome. Fucking finally.”  
  
He gives Tom a wink and they share a high-five that nearly dislocates Tom’s shoulder with the intensity of it.  
  
Chris is about the worst driver in the world, Tom finds out later, stopping for petrol every time they pass a station, checking his tires intermittently, belting out songs off-key. Luke sleeps through all of it in the backseat and only then does Tom realize the weight of his exhaustion: he’s been driving for three days, unwilling to let Liam or Chris take the wheel lest they plunge the car over a cliff.  
  
Liam keeps them company by offering unhelpful commentary, counting the number of trucks they pass, urging Chris to cut and weave. Eventually, he falls asleep too, as the sky is just about to change color, low-hanging clouds turning a dusty pink. Chris’ voice slows as the day wears on and the number of cars on the road dwindles to nothing.  


 

 

  
  
  
They’d stopped for food two hours ago when Liam had complained of a full bladder, but now Tom is hungry again, wanting something hot and warm to fill his belly. He fishes out a chocolate bar from the paper bag sitting at his feet, digging through wrappers of sticky half-eaten sweets, hardened to a shellacked gum by the heat. He takes a bite; it crunches under his teeth.  
  
“Can I play one of my CDs?” he asks, made uneasy by the silence.  
  
“Nope,” says Chris, smiling sweetly.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“You know why not.” Chris raises an eyebrow at him before turning his gaze back to the road. “Because I’m driving.”  
  
“You’re a terrible driver,” Tom tells him. “And an even worse human being.”  
  
“You seem to like me well enough,” Chris says, and Tom can’t even refute that. He chews on his chocolate bar thoughtfully, watching the scenery drift by the window, the generous slope of mountains, the endless stretch of trees and sky rimming each side of the road. Less than ten minutes later, Chris relents, rolling his eyes and turning off his music.  
  
“All right,” he says. “Stop pouting already.”  
  
“I’m not pouting!”  
  
“Whatever,” Chris says dismissively.  
  
“This is my thinking face,” Tom insists, schooling his features into thoughtfulness, but Chris just waves a hand in his direction and shakes his head.  
  
“This better be good,” he grumps, and gives Tom a sullen look.  
  
“Oh it will be,” Tom says to him gleefully, already flipping through the pages of his CD collection. He looks up from his lap, carefully freeing the disc from its jacket. “Bob Dylan. You can’t go wrong with Bob Dylan. Come on, man.”  
  
“You play all the worst songs by the good artists!” Chris complains.  
  
“I resent that. I have good taste. It’s not my fault you don’t.”  
  
The side of Chris’ mouth turns up but he says nothing and Tom doesn’t try to interpret that even though he normally would. Instead he puts on “Shelter From The Storm”, and taps his hand against his knee to the beat, humming the opening verses and closing his eyes, letting the wind outside wash over him.  
  
The song takes him back to his first years in London, to the first flat he’d rented, shortly after university, the cramped kitchen smelling like tea steam, the den filled with heaps of laundry. It was so tiny he could cross the entire flat in seven easy strides, but it had been home to him in a way his mother’s house hadn’t felt like in a long time, a place where he could hide away, and that was no one else’s but his own.  
  
“I wish I could play the harmonica,” Chris tells him as soon as the song has finished.  
  
Tom blinks his eyes open, suddenly remembering where he is. He feels himself blush when he finds Chris watching him but Chris looks away just as Tom does and turns his attention back to the road.  
  
Tom wants to tell Chris about the particularly memory the song has evoked, or the first time he had heard it on the radio all those years ago as a child, at his grandparents’ house in the country, but he holds off, thinking maybe now is not the right time. The afternoon sun makes the dust on the windshield shine the same gold as Chris’ hair and watching it rise off the glass, disturbed by the wind, fills Tom with inexplicable calm.  
  
“I hope you like this song next,” Tom says, and puts “Down the Highway” next.  
  
Eventually, Chris starts humming too.  
  
  
*  
  
Dawn hangs light and airy in the sky when they pull up in front of a roadside diner. Tom is barely awake when the engine is turned off and Chris knocks lightly on the window, his voice muffled by the thick glass.  
  
“Open the door,” he says slowly, rapping his knuckles near Tom’s head. “We're getting breakfast.”  
  
Tom rubs his eyes. There’s a souvenir shop next to the diner with scenic posters of cliffs and rock faces slapped on all of the windows. Clearance Sale. 50% off on all items, another poster reads.  
  
Chris steps outside to take a phonecall right in the middle of breakfast. Tom grabs his leather jacket, still too hot for this kind of weather, and pushes himself out of the booth, slipping both hands inside the front pockets.  
  
The bell above the door tinkles in greeting when he walks into the shop.  
  
There’s a man at the cashier reading a comic book who raises his eyebrow at Tom suspiciously before going back to his reading. “Hey,” Tom says, nodding his head at him. The man doesn't respond.  
  
Tom weaves his way through racks of used clothing and shelves of requisite tourist knick knacks displayed to attract attention: mugs, caps, keychains, postcards and t-shirts. It’s hot inside and he can feel sweat starting to form in his hairline. At the back of the shop is an entire rack of postcards, maps of the Midwest, miniature American flags. Then more mugs, and then, finally: a disposable film camera. Tom plucks it from the shelf, blowing dust off its surface and wiping it clean against his sleeve. It’s tacky and yellow and looks like it's been dropped a number of times.  
  
He walks around the shop some more, picking things up and putting them back down again. The sun comes up an hour later, strong and bright, and Tom takes off his jacket and wraps it around his waist. He’s digging through a box of used cassette tapes for 30 cents each when he hears Chris behind him. It’s his breathing that clues Tom in and the fact that Chris is the only one who really looks for him when he goes off on his own.  
  
Chris’ hand is warm on Tom’s waist when he leans over his shoulder to look at the tape in Tom's hand.  
  
“The Eagles?” He laughs.  
  
Tom puts the tape back where he found it. It clatters on top of the pile inside the box. “Are we leaving?”  
  
Chris nods. “Were you about to buy something?”  
  
Tom shrugs. “Just looking around,” he says. Beads of sweat dot Chris’ forehead. He has lines in his forehead, Tom notices, lines that deepen when he frowns and smooth away as soon as he smiles.  
  
“Let's go,” Chris says. He squeezes Tom’s shoulder firmly before heading out first.  
  
*  
  
Luke folds the road map in two, tucking it under one arm.  
  
Chris climbs out of the car after Tom and walks over to his side, standing with his hands on his hips as he surveys the view.  
  
They’ve driven all night through the hilly terrain of Georgia. Tom’s never been here before, in Lafayette Square, where cathedrals with massive gothic spires tower against the afternoon sun. It looks like the setting of a good story: all that wide open space and the steady reliable heat. He feels Chris standing behind him, his presence a familiar comfort. Then Chris nudges him forward, grinning, and all Tom can think about is the lazy shape of his mouth.  
  
They walk for hours under shadows of old oak trees, branches draped with Spanish moss, seating themselves on stone benches to cool down and watch people walk in and out of weathered brick buildings at least two centuries old.  
  
At around five in the afternoon, after consulting a local, they wander down Oglethorpe Avenue and follow the cobbled sidewalk that leads to Colonial Park Cemetery.  
  
It’s so quiet that Tom hears his shoes brushing the grass. He stands in front of a gravestone dated 1798. Liam is off to the side, looking for reception.  
  
“He died when he was only twenty eight years old,” Chris says, toeing weeds aside with the point of his shoe. “Poor old Robert.”  
  
“ _You’re_ twenty eight years old,” Luke reminds him. Chris laughs but crouches down to touch the stone reverently, the fading letters and date of birth. His nails are neat crescent moons, buffed, cut short.  
  
“Do you feel old?” Chris asks Tom. His face is sombre, his hands dug in his pockets. Sweat makes his shirt stick to his skin.  
  
Tom elbows him gently to get him to look up. “Ancient sometimes,” he says.  
  
Chris smiles. “Same,” he says.  
  
In the background, Liam snorts but says nothing.  
  
Luke leads them forward, and they wade further into the tall grass, reading tombstones and making up stories for some of the graves they pass. Most have died before the turn of the century, men of war, stillbirths, rarely old age. Liam stops to take a picture but stops when Luke raises both his eyebrows.  
  
Tom climbs on top of a waist-high gravestone, sitting there swinging his legs.  
  
“I feel like I’m on top of the world,” he says.  
  
“You’re on top of a gravestone,” Chris reminds him.  
  
Tom laughs and shrugs. He bends down and pats the moss-covered rock underneath him, wonders what he’ll be doing now if he hadn’t gone on this trip.  
  
When he pulls his hand away, his fingers are smeared green and he lags a little behind Chris and his brothers, walking backwards, wanting to take a picture.  
  
*  
  
Luke gets behind the wheel again when they take Highway 7 to Mississippi. Nobody pays attention to Liam who keeps complaining about wanting to drive, though eventually, they let him, after a few aborted attempts to usurp Luke from the wheel. They stop to eat at a place called Joe’s Truckstop after, where men with bulging arms and bellies sit leaning over the bar, nursing pints, taking turns flirting with the hostess, a woman with fiery red hair and theatrical eyelashes, well into her fifties.  
  
They’re easily singled out with their accents and manner of clothing and Tom is grateful for the fact he had the foresight to buy himself a pair of trainers at a novelty store they’d passed on the way there, cheap white Nike knock-offs turned grey by gravel dust. At least now he looks less likely to attract muggers, less ‘fancy’, Chris had said. The men don’t look like they’re about to beat them bloody, which is always a good thing, eyeing them furtively over their drinks before turning their gazes back to the TV where a game of American football is playing, already bored by the sight of them.  
  
They order beer with their burgers and chips, and the grease sits congealing in the pit of Tom’s stomach, giving him cramps, giving him heartburn, but he’s happy, in a strange way, to be lying in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, two hours later, with Chris on the bed opposite his. He sneaks a glance at Chris who, like him, is flat on his back, in grubby shorts, with his shirt rucked up, his bare toes curling and uncurling. Tom can hear the air conditioning rattling, the bed creaking each time he shifts his weight. Otherwise the room is silent. There are cracks in the ceiling, a network of lines like spider webs, as thin as the head of a pin.  
  
Chris rubs a hand across his stomach, the movement making the muscles in his arm flex, then he turns and grins lazily at Tom. His hair is flat on one side where he’s lying on it, his eyes sleepy, soft slits. Tom thinks no one has the right to look this good disheveled but Chris isn’t just anyone, Chris is… Chris, the same guy Tom allows the strange intimacy of touching the bend of his elbow and the back of his neck.  
  
Tom will miss it, this easy friendship that they have, when the trip is over, when they go their separate ways. He doesn’t speak until Chris begins the conversation, afraid the moment will be purged of its clarity. “My brothers love you,” Chris tells him, laughing, a twinkle in his eye. Tom doesn’t share this sentiment: Luke teases him and elbows him in the side enough times to leave a tender bruise, and Liam always asks him about his favourite movies. His first question had been if Tom has seen the Queen in the flesh. Or met a Spice Girl.  
  
“They’re amazing people,” Tom concedes after a moment.  
  
Chris rolls his eyes. “No need to be so polite. They think the sun shines out of your ass.”  
  
Tom giggles, unable to help himself. “ _What_.”  
  
“Ugh.” Chris massages his temple. “I think Liam has a little crush on you.”  
  
“Doubtful.”  
  
“Not that I can blame him,” Chris says, and Tom blinks at him before ignoring the heavy pause.  
  
“I thought he’s got a girlfriend?” Tom asks carefully.  
  
Chris shrugs, a gesture that can mean so many things. “A crush is a crush,” he says. “That changes nothing.”  
  
His look, though fleeting, makes Tom’s stomach curl.  
  
*  
  
Tom remembers the long trips to his grandparents’ house, the eighty minute drive during which he and his sisters would elbow each other in the backseat and marvel at everything they passed: each car, each house, each unique-looking tree, pressing their eager hands and faces against the windows.  
  
They were happy to be in motion, even if they were overtaken by a number of cars on the road because of Tom’s dad’s driving. The first car his dad owned had been an ’89 Austin Metro in white, purchased shortly after they moved into a new flat with better heating and plumbing, years before divorce was on either of his parent’s minds and the only objects flung in the house were the toys Tom and his sisters threw at each other’s heads. The Austin had been the first car he’d learned to drive, at sixteen, navigating the roads behind his grandparents’ house as Emma and Sarah cheered him on in the backseat. But walking – or running– had always been his preferred method of travel, and he often had the tendency to get lost in his thoughts when he drove so he didn’t make a very good driver.  
  
He tells Chris this as Chris continues to drive one-handed, scooping up a palmful of M &Ms with his other hand, pouring all the blue ones into his mouth. His lips stain with dye and Tom is overcome with the strange urge to reach over and wipe it off with his fingers, transmute the color to his own skin. But he stays seated and behaves himself and casts a look out the window, at the thick rows of trees clustered together like old men. Their leaves are thick and the same shade as the glittering lakes the road ambles past.  
  
They grab lunch again at a diner, some hours later, stretching their cramped legs and taking pictures, Liam leaving to take a call from his girlfriend, and then reappearing with his eyes big and wet.  


 

 

  
  
  
Back in the car, warm and exhausted from the food, they watch the scenery unfold on either side of the road, the houses they can see at the distance, their roofs expelling wisps of smoke, the view of the ocean, unhindered by the trees, the sun hanging low in the peach-colored sky.  
  
They drive in relative peace for a while until one night when Luke hits the breaks without warning, sending Tom nearly lurching out of the backseat, snapping him from his half-sleep. His mouth tastes of lint and it takes him a moment to adjust to his surroundings, rubbing the crust from his eyes as he uncoils himself from the backseat and joins Liam and Luke in front of the car. It’s clear from the commotion that they’ve hit something.  
  
Tom had heard a solid thump, then Chris’ loud shout, then the sound of doors opening and shoes slapping the ground. It’s dark outside with nothing but moonlight to light the way. The shadows of trees loom over them like wraiths, rimming the side of the road. The air is cool, passing the back of his neck.  
  
“What’s going on?” Tom asks them, already fearing the worst.  
  
Chris reaches for Tom’s elbow. The touch startles Tom into looking up at him. His mouth is tipped down at the corners.  
  
Luke and Liam step aside from whatever it is they’re crowded around: a young deer, it seems like, its brown fur spotted white. Tom nods, and watches with grim fascination as blood starts leaking from underneath its body. Its eyes are open but unseeing. Luke crouches and caresses its smooth flank, shaking his head in disbelief. “Sorry about that, little guy, we didn’t see you there,” he says, by way of apology.  
  
Tom tries touching it too, the warmth surprising him, making him pull his hand back.  
  
They haul the body to the side of the road, burying it under a blanket of leaves, Liam texting his friends right away about what had just happened, Luke still shaking his head. Chris says nothing to him and the drive is quiet as Luke and Liam sleep in the back, scrunched up uncomfortably against opposite sides of the car, bags pillowed under their heads.  
  
Tom takes the passenger seat, the seat of honor to keep Chris company, ghost-white and shaken as he watches the dark blue of the sky shift above them. The silence between them is interrupted from time to time by the car’s low grunt, by Chris shifting gears, by Liam’s intermittent snoring. It’s almost morning again when Tom comes to – he hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep with one side of his face pasted to the window. He sits up and wipes drool off his cheek, embarrassed beyond belief.  
  
Chris nods at Tom in acknowledgement but doesn’t say anything about the wet spot on Tom’s collar. His hair stands in tufts around his head. He looks wonderful, tired, but wonderful. Tom is tempted to take a picture so he can remember Chris like this always, the way his long eyelashes fan across his eyes and catch the morning light, the lazy lopsided smile on his face. Tom had been afraid of him in the weeks leading up to the read-through, this big, blond guy in the tight shirts, with his long shaggy hair and his even longer vowels. Then he realized how stupid he’d been after Chris had invited him out for a pint one night, touching the back of his neck casually as he told a joke that Tom thought wasn’t very funny but laughed at anyway, because of the telling. Chris told terrible jokes, but his laugh was infectious, a gentle throaty rumble that made the hairs on Tom’s arms shiver, not from the cold.  
  
They’d ended up taking a taxi back to Tom’s place where Chris passed out on the sofa, waking up missing a sock and nursing a hangover he chased away with another beer. Chris never found the sock so he took the tube back to his hotel without it, and it would be weeks later before it would turn up, unexpectedly, between the sofa cushions while Tom was watching TV. Tom never had the heart to send it back so he kept it in his sock drawer, the toe almost worn-through, a memento of good times. Emma called him a klepto. Tom regretted his decision to tell her.  
  
They’ve been driving for four days now, sleeping in shifts, driving in shifts, though no one lets Tom behind the wheel. They claim they don’t want him wearing himself out though Tom has a sneaking suspicion Luke just doesn’t trust him with the car. But he doesn’t think he can drive long distances anyway, the thought of it exhausts him and he is content to sit in the passenger seat for hours, watching the road unfurl beneath him, listening to music, catching Chris’ eye in the rearview mirror each time a joke hits home.  
  
“We’ll be careful next time,” Chris promises him when, not for the first time, he glances at Tom when he thinks Tom isn’t looking. Tom almost asks him what he means by this when he remembers last night’s casualty, the deer bathed in headlights, its blood thickening the gravel. He nods solemnly, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt, remembering all of a sudden that it’s Chris’, and wondering if Chris will ask him to return it or if he can keep it without Chris calling him out on it.  
  
Chris reaches out and his hand on Tom’s knee is warm and not unwelcome, and he lets it stay there for a long time till he needs to make left turn.  
  
*  
  
All the bars they’ve been in have been dark and moody, full of characters who looked profoundly worn down by travel, their shoes scuffed by the hard dirt road. The bars lacked the cozy ambience of a European coffee shop but these places had character, grit, romance, and so they were interesting to Tom who took pictures of every glowing jukebox, every crowded pool table, every road sign that caught his eye. There’s something about it all that feel strangely important enough to catalogue, though why Chris makes it so often in his pictures, he can’t really say.  
  
In Barton County, after miles of shimmering sand-colored wheat, the car finally gives out and sputters to a stop.  
  
They have two flat tires. Chris inspects the damage, whistles, and Luke throws his arms up in exasperation as Liam tries to look for network connection on his phone.  
  
“At least we’ve made it safely out of Holcomb,” Tom says, remembering distinctly that it had been the site of the Clutter murders in the sixties. He crouches next to Chris who gives him a sheepish sort of look, before pushing himself up to his feet, planting a hand on Tom’s shoulder to hoist himself up. The casual touching had never unnerved Tom until their frequency increased. Chris’ shirt, where it’s glued to his skin by sweat, outlines the muscles of his stomach. He claps an arm around Tom’s shoulder.  
  
“Sorry about this,” he says, when they’re seated at the back of a tow truck forty five minutes later, shielding their faces against the afternoon sun, hands over their heads. Liam and Luke are with the mechanic, arguing over whose fault it was that the tires were never checked for air before they left the last petrol station.  
  
“No, don’t apologize,” Tom tells Chris. “I like this. It’s like an adventure. I’ve never been on the back of a tow-truck before.”  
  
Chris laughs. “Well, neither have I.”  
  
“A first then, for the both of us,” Tom says.  
  
Chris nods, then sobers up. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way but you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before,” he says, his tone soft. Tom shrugs, not sure why he’s suddenly embarrassed, when it’s not in his nature, and almost topples over the side of the road when they drive over a speedbump but it’s Chris’ firm grip on his arm that steadies him back, rights him up again so he’s pushed up right underneath Chris’ arm in a kind of hug. This close, he can smell Chris’ breath, saturated by all the candy he’s been eating during the drive.  
  
Tom makes the mistake of leaning forward but catches himself just in time, blinking out of the fog of his thoughts. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. Resting them on Chris’ knee would seem too presumptuous and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive the heartbreak if Chris ever pushes it off, and confirms his worst fears: that he’s misread the signs all along and put too much meaning into things again, that all he was to Chris is a good friend, the kind you phoned at three in the morning when you wanted to go on a road trip with your brothers, the kind you touched a lot, and without thought, and had already seen naked when he’d walked out of the shower forgetting you were in the living room sleeping off your hangover.  
  
“I guess that’s because I’m one of a kind,” Tom says, giggling nervously, looking away.  
  
“You are,” Chris agrees. He squeezes Tom to him, once, twice, his voice low, thoughtful. “You really are.”


	2. part two

  
He calls Tom without thinking. Chris agonizes over it for an hour before picking up the phone and dialing Tom’s number, and when Tom picks up with a sleepy mumble, when he says ‘Chris?’ in that distorted breathy voice Chris remembers hearing every morning before the shoot, something inside him settles into place.  
  
Chris breathes a sigh of relief. “Hey,” he says, leaning against the sink. On the fridge, on a post-it note, is a reminder of the time difference: call before 2PM written in his barely legible scrawl.  
  
Luke wants to go on a road trip. They hadn’t gone on one in a while and he thought now would be the perfect time since neither Chris nor Liam had anything planned until the next month. It had taken Chris days to work up the courage to ask Luke if his friend could come. If it had been any other friend, not just Tom, he wouldn’t have had the audacity to ask, but he kept remembering their parting words, the last look Tom threw him before his flight back to Sydney, his soft wistful smile. “See you again,” he’d said then stepped forward and hugged Chris. “Wherever, whenever that may be.”  
  
His words stayed with Chris even long after they’d parted and Chris couldn’t help thinking he’d missed a golden opportunity.  
  
Now here they are, on the back of a tow-truck, rumbling past sleepy houses, under a broiling hot sun. The heat reminds Chris of home; a pervasive dry warmth thickens the air. Murk rises in dusty cloud from the ground.  
  
The weather doesn’t seem as forgiving with Tom whose forehead beads impossibly with sweat, sunburnt in patches where he’d forgotten to slab on sun cream. Chris winds an arm around him and rubs his shoulder soothingly. Something about seeing Tom, his face pinched in discomfort, makes him feel fiercely protective, even though Tom is years older and between the two of them, makes better choices. It’s something he can’t explain. Tom smiles at him tiredly but doesn’t shuffle out of his embrace.  
  
They drop the car off at an auto-shop, then walk the rest of the way to the nearest hotel, escorted by one of the shop mechanics, a man whose name was stitched in the breastpocket of his overalls. From the outside the hotel is promising, a five story brick building with white railings lining the upper floor balconies. Liam cries out in relief as soon as they step into the air-conditioned lobby, dropping his bags at his feet, kissing the carpet. “Sweet mother of Jesus,” he breathes.  
  
Luke rolls his eyes.  
  
“Are you with the Banyons?” the receptionist asks, accepting the card Chris slides across the counter.  
  
“I’m sorry?” says Luke, over Chris’ shoulder.  
  
“Oh, never mind,” she giggles and gives them each a key.  
  
They can afford it. Chris has been paid handsomely for Thor, and the money will more than put a roof over his head. They wander to the elevator, Tom fingering the balloons tied to the potted plants in the sitting area, and eyeing the paper streamers strung up on the walls. There’s a wedding reception later at seven.  
  
“Cool,” says Liam, picking up a card from the table. “There’s an open bar.”  
  


  
  
  
Chris’ room is sparsely decorated: just a bed with maroon covers matching the curtains and the carpet, a nightstand, a television set, and a small walk-in closet. The balcony overlooks a lake behind the hotel, a creaky strip of mahogany flooring that bends under the slightest pressure. Chris decides not to tempt it. He showers, scrubs grit from his skin and fingernails, and feels infinitely better when he steps out of the bathroom, his faith in the world restored. He nicks himself shaving, rooting through his stuff and sniffing out a clean shirt. He’d agreed to meet Tom and his brothers for dinner, after which they would walk around to see if anything interesting was going on.  
  
It takes Liam and Luke half an hour to finish getting ready so when Chris wanders down the lobby, the designated meeting place, he finds Tom instead, sitting with his hands folded in his lap, observing his surroundings. He’s back to his button-down shirts again, his proper pleated trousers, his loafers more suited to a nice night out.  
  
Chris slinks in behind him, sliding his hands over Tom’s eyes, catching him off guard. Tom jerks in his seat and wheels around, mouth open with protests, but he visibly relaxes when he sees that it’s just Chris.  
  
“Hey,” says Chris, ruffling his hair.  
  
Tom ducks shyly and laughs, batting his hand half-heartedly. “Hey.” He scoots over to make room for Chris.  
  
“What’re you doing here?” Chris asks, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
“Oh, just waiting for the Hemsworths.”  
  
“Sorry they’re taking a while,” Chris says, checking his watch, shrugging sheepishly.  
  
A concerned look passes briefly over Tom’s face, clouding his expression. “What happened to your face?”  
  
Chris slaps a hand over his cheek. “Ugh. Cut myself shaving.” He rubs at the spot self-consciously, aware Tom is watching him.  
  
“Poor baby,” Tom coos, still in a teasing lilt. He shakes his head, rubs the pad of his thumb across the tip of his tongue, and without warning, swipes his thumb across the spot in Chris’ cheek, like that could somehow mend the damage, reverse the mistake.  
  
“You missed a spot,” Tom explains, then presses his lips together, shrugging. Then he moves away, completely.  
  
Chris nods and says his thanks, running a hand over his cheek, feeling the skin there burn, as heat crawls across the back of his neck. He feels like a teenager, rendered incoherent by a crush, reduced to stuttering. He thinks about what he must look like to Tom, in his nondescript shirt and cargo shorts. He’s wearing floppy sandals. It’s not, admittedly, his best look. He’s wearing a beanie to cover the mess of his hair; it’s in desperate need of a trim, uneven tufts hanging over his ears.  
  
“You lovebirds ready?” Liam asks, from somewhere above their heads.  
  
They leap apart simultaneously, Chris whirling around to fix Liam with a murderous look. One day, that kid is going to regret having been born, Chris thinks.  
  
“I’m starving,” Luke announces, slapping a hand on Tom and Chris’ shoulders, each. “Let’s go look for something to eat.”  
  
*  
  
Luke didn’t take to the idea immediately; he needed cajoling and a little bribery before he consented to having Tom along for the trip. Liam didn’t care as long as he got to drive and he was somehow under the impression that Chris was doing it as a way to get closer to Tom, sleep with him  
  
“It’s not like that,” Chris had tried to explain.  
  
“ _Right_ ,” said Liam.  
  
But it hadn’t been as terrible as he’d hoped: Tom was easygoing and made his brothers laugh, and he got along famously with the both of them. Luke liked him as soon as he’d heard the joke about the Jewish banker, which was, according to Tom, the dirtiest and most complicated joke he knew. Liam took a while to warm up to him, partly because he kept texting his girlfriend all the time and ignoring everything around him. When he realized that Tom was not like Chris’ other friends, that he was, in fact, British, he’d perked up and started pestering him with inane questions, following him around short of the bathroom.  
  
Chris had nearly killed himself with worry when he’d first introduced Tom to his brothers, dreading the awkwardness and the pregnant silences and the tension his appearance had the potential to create. But he’d heard nothing but good things from Luke, who later slapped him on the shoulder when they had stopped for petrol. He told Chris Tom was a keeper and punched him lightly in the arm before giving him a particularly leery grin.  
  
“I’m glad he doesn’t have a beach tan,” Luke had joked. “You did good by bringing him home.”  
  
*  
  
They go to a burger place nearby. Chris sits in the booth next to the glass wall where he has a view of the street outside: pedestrians crossing the street, dressed, unlike him, appropriately for the weather. His attire screams of _tourist_ , from his sandals to the thick rows of beaded bracelets and leather straps ribbing his wrists.  
  
It takes them half an hour to decide what to order because Liam keeps changing his mind every five minutes. Tom grins at Chris over the menu card spread open in his hands, his eyes dancing in private amusement, sunk to crescent moons. They wash the food down with ice-cold beer, their glasses dripping with condensation. Then they walk back to the hotel, made sleepy by the overeating, or at least it has that sort of effect on Luke who excuses himself to bed hours before his regular bedtime. Liam leaves the three of them to go exploring and Chris hesitates outside Tom’s door before pretending he has other things to do as well. He bids Tom goodnight and forces himself to sleep, passing the time by switching through the dozen or so channels on TV.  
  
Eventually, through sheer force of will, he sleeps, dreaming he is swimming underwater and wading towards a pulsating source of light just above the surface. When he wakes, less than an hour later, his phone is ringing on the nightstand. He picks it up – it’s Tom. Chris cocks an eyebrow and presses his phone to his ear.  
  
“Did I wake you?” asks Tom, sounding distressed. “I hope I didn’t.”  
  
“You didn’t,” Chris lies. “What’s up?”  
  
“I’m outside, staring at your balcony or what I believe is your balcony.” He laughs. Chris drags himself out of bed and steps between the sliding doors. Tom is a speck stories below him, a smudge he can barely make out in the dark. Tom waves or appears to wave. Chris waves back, feeling awkward, pocketing his hand immediately, even though he knows no one is watching.  
  
“Come down here. I want to show you something,” Tom whispers over the phone. His laugh, in Chris’ ear, makes the hair on the back his neck stand on end.  
  
*  
  
“The Banyons were married today,” Tom tells him, no preamble, as soon as Chris crosses the distance between them. Above them, strung up and bandied about by the evening breeze are rows of paper lanterns. There are a number of them too, on the lake, bobbing across the water, drifting like colorful unmoored sailboats.  
  
“How do you know the Banyons?” Chris asks as Tom leads him down to the dock. Chairs have been stacked in heaps, the plates cleared away of food. A gazebo with a red pitched roof wreathed with garlands of flowers sits in the middle of water, the dock leading straight to it.  
  
Chris can hear table cloths snapping in the wind like sails, the distant call of tree frogs, there, across the water.  
  
Tom shrugs, grinning, his cheeks flushing with color. “I was invited to the reception.” He points to his chest where a red paper heart is taped to the lapel of his shirt.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Tom laughs once he senses Chris’ confusion. “I have one for you too.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a paper heart, peels the adhesive strip from the back and slaps it right across Chris’ chest. It knocks Chris off-balance and he clears his throat a few times and Tom laughs again and rubs Chris’ chest before letting go and stepping back, giving Chris a wide berth.  
  
“Sometimes I ask myself how it’s possible you exist,” Chris tells him, adjusting the paper heart over where his real one should be. The smell of rain rises up from the lake, and a gust of wind rearranges the paper lanterns high above their heads, sending a number of them swinging, twirling.  
  
Tom has written his name on the paper heart, his letters clear and precise. Chris laughs, imagining him making friends with the people from the party, shaking their hands, dazzling them with his smile, his charm.  
  
Tom squints up at something in the sky, his eyebrows drawn together. “I’m not sure how to take that,” he says, keeping his eyes firmly fixed above.  
  
Chris finds himself staring at the side of his face, in spite of himself, the pale stalk of his neck, sleek and lean. He remembers having met Tom for the first time, all those months ago, at Ken’s house, how his hair had been thick and blond, curling in rings, how his smile had been wide and eager as he took Chris’ hand to shake.  
  
“You should take that as a compliment,” Chris says to him, pretending he isn’t staring at Tom from the corner of his eye. “You continue to impress.”  
  
“Hey, I think I’m rubbing off on you,” Tom says, grinning. “You’re starting to talk like me.”  
  
“Am I? I don’t see that as a bad thing.”  
  
“Maybe,” Tom says. “But I quite like the way you talk and I’ll miss it, I think, if you started adapting my speech patterns.” He laughs, rubbing the skin under his eye, face crumpling for a moment as he stifles a yawn. “I never thought we’d see each other again, not for a long time at least.”  
  
“Well,” Chris says, not sure what to say to that. “Here we are now.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tom agrees with a tiny nod. “Here we are.” He pauses, looks back at Chris. “Where are we?”  
  
They burst out laughing.  
  
“It’s beautiful here,” Tom says, “In any case.” He lifts up his face to the sky, closing his eyes, and watching him, his face serene, his soft lips parted, Chris can’t agree more.  
  
*  
  


  
  
  
The skies peel back, issuing rain, the first drop hitting Tom square in the eyelid as he tips up his face. He insists on waiting it out, tugging Chris to the gazebo, hand shading his face as the rain increases in intensity. His grip on Chris’ wrist slackens as soon as they duck under the pitched roof, and Tom grins as he lets go completely, rubbing his elbows for warmth as they watch the rain fall around them, the air smelling like wet grass and ozone.  
  
“I’m glad I’m here,” Tom says softly, shivering, bumping into Chris and looking up at him.  
  
Chris is standing behind him, wanting to touch the creases in his neck where a dark tuft of hair curls like a beckoning finger but he knows the importance of timing.  
  
“I’m glad too,” he says.  
  
Tom smiles, saying nothing, and leans casually against him, the curve of his spine pressed surely against Chris’ chest.  
  
They brave the weather and run back to the hotel when the rain doesn’t taper off. Tom laughs as he lags behind and they take the lift back to their rooms, their clothes and shoes dripping wet, leaving trails in the carpet.  
  
“I’ll lend you a shirt,” Chris offers, just so he has an excuse to keep Tom in his room. Tom nods, accepting the towel Chris hands him, and runs it across his face and neck and hair till he notices Chris watching him.  
  
“You’re soaked,” Chris says as an excuse even though it doesn’t make sense.  
  
Tom just smiles at him slowly, shrugs his shoulders. “I’m gonna shower,” he tells Chris. “And then I’m gonna come back. I’ll knock three times, is that all right?”  
  
“Sure,” Chris says. Tom leaves and he huffs out a breath, then goes to thaw out in the shower himself, washing off the smell of rain.  
  
When he steps out, fifteen minutes later, Tom hasn’t knocked yet, so he waits idly by the balcony where rain is beating steadily against the glass doors. Then, as if on cue, there’s three consecutive knocks, and Chris runs to the door and practically flings it off its hinges.  
  
It is, of course, just Tom.  
  
“Hey,” Tom says sheepishly, dressed in Chris’ shirt, the one with the picture of Sydney Harbor. His hair, damp, curls against his forehead, dark little rings that Chris wants to touch.  
  
“Hey,” Chris says, leaning his weight against the door.  
  
*  
  
When Chris had called Tom a week ago, he’d expected disappointment. He knew Tom had things to do, scripts to read; he’d talked about future projects enough times in the past that Chris wasn’t anticipating him agreeing to come.  
  
“Really?” he’d asked, disbelievingly, relief flooding him in waves, making it impossible for him to stand upright. He had to clutch the sink for balance. This was more than what he’d expected.  
  
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I want to?”  
  
“I don’t know,” said Chris. He really didn’t. It was almost too good to be true.  
  
“You’re not doing a very good job of selling this to me,” Tom had laughed.  
  
“Sorry it’s kind of last minute,” Chris said. He kept thinking, strangely enough, of that Last Look Tom had given him at the airport. It didn’t hit him until later that he’d missed an opportunity, that something had happened between them in the months leading up to filming, and whatever it was still had hope of being salvaged.  
  
Chris sighed, closing his eyes. The fridge behind him was emitting a comforting kind of warmth and he imagined sinking into it, never having to leave.  
  
“We’re gonna have so much fun,” Tom said.  
  
*  
  
“What surprised you about me?” Tom asks. He sits on the edge of Chris’ bed as Chris tosses him a water bottle from the mini-bar.  
  
“What didn’t?”  
  
“I’m serious.” Tom rolls his eyes, uncapping the lid. “What had been your first impression?”  
  
Chris doesn’t even have to lie about that. “I thought you were amazing.”  
  
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”  
  
“Is it so hard to believe I thought you were?” Chris laughs.  
  
“I was afraid of you,” Tom says, shrugging, leaning his weight back on his palms. He dips his head meekly, biting his lip.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I thought you’d pummel me! _I don’t know._ I thought you looked angry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Then you smiled and then got drunk on my couch. _In that order._ Those two events evenly spaced and not mutually exclusive.”  
  
“Hm,” says Chris thoughtfully. He thinks about Tom’s watch, that first time they’d met, the thin leather strap and how it drew his attention to the narrowness of Tom’s wrist. “What do you think’s gonna happen after this?” he asks tentatively.  
  
Tom seems surprised by the question, his eyes widening, grey under a certain light. “Whatever you want to happen, I guess,” he says, shrugging again. “Aren’t we supposed to be masters of our own fate?”  
  
Chris doesn’t know what to say to that so he lets it rest. Still, he likes the thought, that blind optimism Tom sometimes has. He wants to be in control of his own destiny, and not just wait for things to happen to him. When Tom has to leave, eventually, the both of them too tired to keep on talking, Tom drags himself to the door and waves goodnight.  
  
“So I guess I’ll see you in the morning then,” he says, and something about the way he says it, his words soft, like his voice, or the way his eyes close at the end of his sentence makes something in Chris unwind into threads.  
  
Chris hesitates, there by the door, his hand outstretched. Then: “Oh, fuck it,” he says, and crowds Tom against it, effectively cutting off whatever he’s about to say.  
  
*  
  
Chris steps back a few seconds later when Tom goes limp in his arms and doesn’t respond. Their teeth clink when he pulls away. Chris can still taste him on the roof his mouth, like minty tea, when he swallows a sigh. He checks Tom’s face for signs of rejection, steeling himself for the inevitable letdown.  
  
“I wasn’t expecting that,” Tom says, touching his fingers to his lips, pressing them, next, to Chris’. He leans up – though they’re nearly the same height– so he can brush the cold tip of his nose against the side of Chris’ face, and inches closer, folding himself against Chris until Chris has no choice but to close his arms around his shoulders. Up close Chris can see the long spikes of his eyelashes. He holds Tom against him as Tom rubs his nose against his cheek but still doesn’t kiss him back.  
  
“I kept trying to talk myself out of kissing you,” Chris says, the muscles of Tom’s back flexing under his spread hands.  
  
“Why?” says Tom.  
  
Chris knows now that it had been stupid of him but he tells Tom about timing, about how, when he’d gotten drunk at that pub in the corner street, all he really wanted to do was pin Tom against the wall and kiss his neck. He thought the alcohol would give him courage, he thought it would make him brave. The look Tom had given him at the airport had been the last straw – Chris didn’t want this to be last in the line of a long list of what could’ve beens.  
  
“You’re free to do that now,” Tom says gently, his smile nervous but full of hope.  
  
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Chris says.  
  
“What?” Tom laughs, shoulders rising and falling like hiccups.  
  
“Because then,” Chris says. “Then I wouldn’t know how to proceed.”  
  
“You just kissed me! You seemed to know what you were doing then. So just do it. _Again_. But gently. You nearly cut my lip with your teeth.”  
  
“Sorry,” Chris says.  
  
Tom’s eyes begin to soften. “Oh no, it’s all right,” he says. He rubs the pad of his thumb across Chris’ cheekbones, his eyes softly narrowed, the heat of his touch flaring across the entire side of Chris’ face. “Come on, kiss me again Ch—”  
  
Tom startles when Chris does just that. Chris feels him loosen in his arms, release a sigh. Then he starts kissing back, surging against Chris and cupping the back of his head, walking him to the bed, falling on top of him on his hands and knees, Chris underneath him, breathing heavily.  
  
Chris brings a hand up in his hair, twines his fingers in the fine dark shadowy strands.  
  
“What?” Tom says, curling on top of him, his head on Chris’ chest.  
  
Chris kisses his temple. “I was just remembering something.”  
  
“What, about my hair?”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris laughs. “Before you dyed it.”  
  
“Before I dyed it I kept getting referred to as Gene Wilder.”  
  
“This suits you just fine too,” Chris assures him. “But back then…” He lets out a wistful sigh. Tom smiles at him, leaning up, and then kissing him, his eyes falling closed, slowly, slowly until he moans at the first press of tongue. Chris slides a hand under his shirt, feeling his stomach shudder underneath his palm, and months from now, or maybe years, Chris knows he will remember this, the way Tom fit perfectly against him, his knee wedged between Chris’ thigh, his dark hair falling like a veil over the both of them, a cave they can both get lost in.  
  
Chris flips them over, peels Tom’s shirt off as Tom lifts his arms eagerly and laughs. Then his trousers come off next, leaving him in his underwear and his socks, and Chris kisses him again before he loses all nerve or before Tom realizes this is a bad idea and changes his mind.  
  
But Tom only grins at him with white teeth before spreading his hands across the button of Chris’ cargo shorts. They work efficiently, not talking. When Chris is finally naked, rutting against the small of Tom’s back with his hands firmly clamped to Tom’s hips, it’s quiet, even then, nothing to disrupt the stillness but the squeak of the mattress springs, their heavy grunts and moans. Tom pants raggedly, like a dog, palming himself as he shudders. Chris had wanted to fuck him and pry him open like a secret, and he’d nearly come close, spearing Tom with two slick fingers before realizing neither of them had planned this, which mean neither of them had brought a condom. It would’ve been nice though, but maybe some other time.  
  
Timing, Chris thinks. It’s all in the timing.  
  
He finishes first, streaking a diagonal line across Tom’s back, marked with a starburst of moles and freckles and a thumb-sized birthmark the color of milky coffee. Tom turns around to face him, ruddy cock in hand, grinning lazily, and Chris takes this as his cue to crawl between his knees and run his fingers up the wiry hairs of his legs. He’s beautiful – from the neat line of his ribs to the curves his legs make when hoisted on Chris’ shoulders. Chris pushes his face towards his hole, extends his tongue, licking wide swathes, keeps pumping him with one hand as he licks into Tom and fingers him intermittently, two fingers, then three, because he seems to really enjoy that, wrapping his lips around the head of Tom’s cock and then hollowing his cheeks.  
  
Tom comes with a lurch, exploding in the back of his mouth. Chris swallows because it’s the polite thing to do, and wipes his cheek against the back of his arm where a dribble had escaped. When Tom is himself again, less moony-eyed but still breathing harshly, he tucks himself against Chris’ side, sticky with sweat and lean, smelling good, his breath milky sweet, as he wraps a long leg around Chris’ waist, his warm cock nestled between them.  
  
“ _Christ_ ,” he says, shivering. Chris wraps an arm around him and traces the path of his spine with one hand, walking his fingers down to the valley of his buttocks, and Tom shivers again.  
  


  
  
  
*  
  
Chris remembers a story that his mother used to tell him. It was the only story she hadn’t made up or read from a book; it was a story about how she’d met Chris' father, and she would preface it always by pointing out that she’d fallen in love with him, not because of the way he’d looked, but because of the way he told a joke.  
  
They had met the summer they were both seventeen when Chris’ mother was playing fetch with the dog. She had been outside, sitting in the shade, waiting for the dog to return to her when Chris’ dad climbed out of a car and asked for directions.  
  
Later, he told her he wasn’t really lost, that he’d seen her sitting there on the porch with her feet up and her hair in big clouds around her shoulders, and wanted to know her name. That he lived in the same neighborhood, and took the same bus routes to the city, but then saw her that afternoon sipping a Coke through a red straw, and thought it was time to try his luck. This was the sixties when people were a little more forgiving and listened to a lot of rock music. He told her the joke about the monk and the two fishermen, missing all his cues, barely making her laugh. Chris’ mother didn’t invite him inside but later that week, called him, and another week after his father was driving her home from school regularly.  
  
It’s a good story.  
  
Four days later, they wander inside an empty church in Mexico. The candles light their faces when they slink towards the pews, their footsteps loud in the strange stillness. The smell of rain is heavy outside and Chris hears the steady patter of it on the roof.  
  
“So here we are,” Chris says. “Where are we?”  
  
Tom slumps against him and shrugs.  
  
Later they will begin their long trek back to the car, walking in the dark between the glimmering firelies.  
  
Much later they will be driving back east, joining the highway again until they find a motel, then a hotel where they will go their separate ways. Chris will stand there by the bedside and chew on a stick of liquorice, smiling with just one side of his mouth, spellbound by the amount of clutter they've collected on this trip – maps and menus, receipts and postcards, matching plastic rings from a street vendor in the Plaza de Santo Domingo.  
  
It will be late when they decide to sleep again, blankets softening to the shape of their bodies. It will be late when they decide to leave.  
  
They sit side by side, listening to rain beating down the roof. Chris sighs and closes his eyes, picturing it falling like tinsel over everything, the sparkling lines shining in the hot afternoon sun, strings of melted gold.  
  
He drapes an arm around Tom’s shoulders as Tom slouches in his seat, playing with the beads of Chris’ bracelets, snapping the elastic string holding them together. A few nights ago, Tom had kissed his ring, before rising up and rocking his hips against Chris’ hips, each movement smooth and steady like waves crashing against a shoreline. He’d stolen one of Chris’ bracelets too, when they’d finished, wearing it around his thin left wrist where it droops down to the middle of his arm.  
  
Tom seems endlessly fascinated by Chris’ jewelry, the stories they hold, their history. He likes touching them when they walk close enough, or sit close enough, running his fingers along the grooved textures of the beads, palming the thick leather strips, kissing Chris between his fingers before sinking down fully on his cock.  
  
He’ll miss this, Chris thinks, but miss isn’t something that will adequately describe the heaviness he can already feel knotting in his stomach at the thought of them going their separate ways. People miss red meat all the time, their pets, people miss the sun when it rains; he’ll need a stronger word.  
  
Outside, there is a clap of lighting followed closely by a rumble of thunder. Tom startles, then looks at him, catching his eye, and laughs. Then he tucks himself back under Chris’ arm.  
  
Luke and Liam sit rows ahead of them and so cannot see when Tom inches up his face and kisses Chris, there, where he’d cut himself shaving days ago, the skin already healed.  
  
 _Love_ , Chris thinks as rain rattles the windows. The word he’s looking for is love.  
  
  


  
  
  
  
pictures used: [[x](http://www.flickr.com/photos/salix_lucida/)] [[x](http://www.flickr.com/photos/maximedegee/)] [[x](http://www.flickr.com/photos/dyroff/)].  
  
header from [[x](http://www.flickr.com/photos/jenlittle/5041917777/sizes/z/in/photostream/)]


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